


Cherry Ripe

by Celebratory Penguin (cpenguing)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, Oh these crazy boys, Post-Candlestick Park, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-22 18:49:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11973483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cpenguing/pseuds/Celebratory%20Penguin
Summary: George leans forward, puts his hands on John's shoulders, and whispers, "He's grieving for you, Johnny.""Ringo is?" John asks in a reedy, confused voice he scarcely recognizes as his own."No, you clot - honestly, RINGO?" George rolls his eyes and gestures theatrically toward Heaven. "It's Paul, for fuck's sake, it's Paul!"





	Cherry Ripe

**Author's Note:**

> Well, my inbox exploded with complaints about how "Cherry Bomb" ended, so I'm presenting this as a possible fix-it. 
> 
> Millais' "Cherry Ripe" painting, which is disturbing on a number of levels (seriously, look up its history and prepare to be made extremely uncomfortable), can be seen here:  
> http://www.sothebys.com/content/dam/stb/lots/L04/L04121/48P22_L04121-21.jpg
> 
> The song "Cherry Ripe" was written in the late 19th century using the words of the earlier poem. It was still popular around WWI and was therefore something their mothers should know. ::rim shot::

**CHERRY RIPE**

***

 

 _Cherry ripe, cherry ripe,_  
_Ripe I cry._  
_Full and fair ones_  
_Come and buy._  
_Cherry ripe, cherry ripe,_  
_Ripe I cry._  
_Full and fair ones_  
_Come and buy._  
\--Robert Herrick (1786-1849)

 

August 29, 1966

San Francisco, California

 

Their last show is over, and now all they have to do is pack up and go home.

Go home and do what, exactly, is beyond John's scope of imagination. He'll worry about that later, when he isn't dealing with the after-effects of half a dozen stiff drinks and a truly outstanding joint.

John takes stock of the "party room" that divides the two bedrooms of their suite. Paul and George are sharing the sofa, a large bottle of champagne, and a murmured conversation that John can't hear no matter how hard he tries. Ringo is slouched in, over, and around an armchair, sound asleep with his head almost touching the carpet. It's a marvel how such a small frame can take up so much room.

There have been many chances for John to observe Ringo's sprawl over the last ten days. While no one seems to have made an official request or announcement, the night of the two Missouri concerts John's suitcase and Ringo's were placed in the same bedroom, George's and Paul's in the other. It's been that way every night since Memphis.

John and Paul haven't shared a room since the aftermath of the Memphis concert. A firecracker tossed at the stage had scared John out of his wits, to the point where he woke screaming from a nightmare and had to be consoled by Paul.

The night had, incredibly, gone downhill from there, with Paul likening John to the cherry bomb that had terrified them so badly, then declaring that their physical relationship had to end. The awful evening culminated in Paul's Bye-Bye Blowjob, with John's Farewell Fuck serving as an encore early the following morning.

_Paul's flesh, tinted golden-pink in the rising light of dawn, had been covered in a fine sheen of sweat as John worshipped every inch of him._

John has been using all his charms and wiles this week.

_Knowing that he'd never have the chance again, John took his time to give Paul every possible pleasure._

However, it isn't helping him to change Paul's mind.

_John kissed him, licked him, even sang to him, little nonsense verses that he timed with his thrusts._

Paul is pleasant enough on the rest of the tour, friendly and outgoing and oh-so-charming that John isn't sure if he wants to fuck him silly or punch his lights out. But the few times John has tried to touch him, Paul has politely but firmly rebuffed him.

_At the end, as Paul's back arched impossibly high, he lifted his hand and placed it gently over John's eyes. John would never know what mysteries were revealed in Paul's expression at the moment their bodies melted together._

Sometimes Paul's eyes will mist over when he speaks, or he will bite his lower lip as he looks at an imaginary spot just over John's shoulder.

_They held each other and wept afterwards, John mouthing "Don't leave me, Paulie" into the flesh of Paul's shoulder._

John knows all the symptoms, knows that Paul is devastated, knows that his own presence is causing Paul even more pain.

_"I have to go, Johnny. I love you."_

No matter how godawful he makes Paul feel, John can't resist the temptation to try again and again to regain what he hadn't realized he'd been losing.

_Paul had risen, dressed, packed his bag, and left the room all in the ten minutes John was taking a quick shower._

Salt in the wound. Rock salt with jagged edges, laced with sulfuric acid.

What a marvelous life.

If pressed to find a silver lining to this wretched state of affairs, John can honestly say that he's grateful that George has stopped being such a whinging prick. George's tone with both John and Paul has become gentle, brotherly. Nowadays George casts sympathetic glances in John's direction - John wonders how much George knows and for how long he's known it - and he makes an effort to speak to John, to hold actual conversations with him rather than spouting diatribes at him.

Ringo, who always understands the three of them better than they understand themselves, attaches himself to John and listens to all the things John isn't saying. It's Ringo's best-kept secret gift, hearing between their words and seeing into their souls.

Whatever conversation George and Paul are holding tonight is wrapping itself up. Paul rises and starts examining the heinous Pre-Raphaelite prints that hang on the wall. They're slightly crooked, as if ashamed of themselves.

George wanders over to John, too casually, and offers a kind-hearted smile.

"So," George says, and John swears that he sounds nervous, "I'm gonna grab Ritchie and pour him into bed before he falls down and breaks his neck. I'll get his stuff out of your room and put it in mine so I can look after him, okay?"

The analytical part of John's tries and fails to kick in.

George leans forward, puts his hands on John's shoulders, and whispers, "He's grieving for you, Johnny."

"Ringo is?" John asks in a reedy, confused voice he scarcely recognizes as his own.

"No, you clot - honestly, RINGO?" George rolls his eyes and gestures theatrically toward Heaven. "It's Paul, for fuck's sake, it's Paul!"

John manages to stumble while standing still, grabbing the back of a chair to help him regain something like balance. "What...how did...?"

George's smile is simultaneously compassionate and conspiratorial. "A few drinks before bedtime and Paul gets remarkably chatty. Plus, I've known him since we were kids, remember?" George lets out a little sigh and adds, slower and more seriously, "I've seen him mourn before."

John knows what he means: Mary, the mother Paul had lost a year before he met John. At first John hadn't understood the depth of that wound, but now he bears a matching scar.

"I'll try not to fuck it up," John says quietly, aware of the silent warning in George's protective gaze.

"I've got faith in you, Johnny." George pats his arm and goes about the task of scooping Ringo out of the chair he's inhabiting.

Just as John begins to wonder exactly how to go about validating George's belief in him, he hears Paul's voice softly singing a gentle, lilting melody.

Paul is standing in front of one of the prints, a picture of a little girl sitting next to a bag of cherries. The little plaque at the bottom of the overwrought, faux-gold frame reads "Cherry Ripe - Millais." Paul is singing tenderly to the little girl's portrait. Even though his voice has to be worn out from the night's show, it still has a sweetness about it, the essential Paul-sound that sets him apart from every other singer John has ever heard.

"Cherry ripe, cherry ripe,  
Ripe I cry.  
Full and fair ones  
Come and buy."

Paul's voice cracks a little on "fair ones" but to John, that's perfection itself.

"My mum used to sing that," John says softly. "Different tune, though."

"I don't know the tune - just saw the sheet music lying about on Da's piano one day."

They're not looking at one another, but Paul's not running away, either. John dares to step a little closer, his heart beating in a dangerously irregular rhythm. "Kind of a naff painting, though. Cynthia wanted it for the nursery back when we didn't know if we were having a Julia or a Julian." John takes a breath and asks, "What's making you sing to her, then?"

Paul turns just a few degrees toward John. His face is pale above the five-or-ten-o'clock shadow and his eyes are shimmering. "Because she's spilled those beautiful cherries, and that's made her sad."

John knows that the painting isn't about any of those things, and he has his mouth open to explain it to Paul, but for once he has enough sense to just shut the hell up and let Paul keep talking.

"Some of them are gone, and some of them are bruised." The tempo of Paul's words accelerates madly. "Maybe they were the last ones of the season and she doesn't know if she'll ever see any more."

Paul reaches out with an unsteady hand and traces the face of the girl in the picture. John can see a tear tracking its way slowly down Paul's face, the droplet catching on the scar above his lip.

John has a sudden, almost irresistible desire to kiss that tear away. Instead, he does something marginally less dangerous, coming up behind Paul and wrapping his arms around Paul's waist.

Paul doesn't move.

John can't breathe.

Then Paul tips his dark head toward John and rests his cheek in John's hair.

Now John REALLY can't breathe.

"Maybe," John manages to rasp, "those are the ones she's saving for something special."

"Mmm." Paul rubs his face against John's scalp, more and more of his body weight shifting over to rest against him. "Maybe she ate the others too quickly, and she regrets not savoring each one."

Normally, Paul's shite metaphors make John bark out in derisive laughter, but this one hits hard in the solar plexus and there's nothing funny about it. It hurts, oh, God, it hurts so much.

"I did. I do," John babbles. "I remember every single time, Paul, I swear to God. From that time I tossed you off because your hands were sore from practicing, to Paris, to Florida when you were so loud that we couldn't hear the hurricane, I savor it all, Paulie..."

"John, please..."

_Please what? Please stop? Please throw me on the carpet and fuck me until I can't speak anymore? Please throw your useless ass off the roof of this building?_

Where before he'd been sure and unyielding, Paul is now pliant in John's embrace. John turns him around so their foreheads are touching, burnished brown hair mixing with inky black. They stand so close that the very air John breathes comes from Paul.

_I want you more than my next breath, Paul had said._

Paul's fingers stroke along the edges of John's mouth, then up to his cheeks and finally to the tender skin at his temples, reading John's face as if it were Holy Writ in Braille. Astonished, grateful, amazed, John stares into Paul's eyes. Their hues are never the same from one day, one mood, to the next, and tonight John notices traces of green the color of a storm at sea.

"Macca," John whispers. "It's gonna be okay."

Paul nods. His lips are pressed tightly together and he's breathing harshly through his nose the way he does when he's fighting with an overflow of emotions.

John rubs his hands up and down Paul's arms, warming him, grounding him. "I'm sorry about all of it," he says, punctuating his words with little kisses to Paul's cheeks and nose. "I'll take you to Paris when we get back, how about that? We can stay in some grotty little hellhole with a single bed, and I'll feed you banana milkshakes." Paul chuckles a little, which thrills and emboldens John. "Or we can get a suite somewhere swanky and have champers and caviar, and I'll buy you a leather jacket, a diamond-studded guitar, anything you want, baby, anything..."

Paul stops John's mouth with his own.

They fall on the sofa in perfect unison, clutching each other until they're pressed together like photos in an album, like flowers between the pages of a beloved book.

John wants to thank every deity that's ever been dreamed of. Paul, Paul, his Paul, is opening his lips and his heart to him, and John's prayers for expiation have been answered with a loud thunderclap, a YES from Heaven, sent to him through Paul's cries of pleasure.

It's not the last time, after all. It's the first, a rebirth, a ripening of something sweet.

***  
END  
***

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the mention of spilled cherries was inspired by the cover of "McCartney."


End file.
